My last column, ever

I knew I’d hate this job.

I’m not from Utah, don’t like politics and I’m generally unqualified to speak proficiently about anything except Martin Scorsese movies and the Chicago Cubs. I started out at The Chronicle as a sports writer and never intended to leave the easy comforts of free pizza and cushy press seats.

Yet here I sit, the soon-to-be-ex-opinion editor, charged with “reflecting” on my experience this past year.

Well, guess what, sports fans? It sucked medicine balls.

Don’t get me wrong, I cherish the time I’ve spent with the students who worked for me. Whenever I’d get down on myself, I’d just bark some orders at them and suddenly I’d feel alive again. That part was great.

No, it’s the endless writing that has my knickers caught up in such a twist.

Honestly, how is a college student supposed to have anything valuable to say week after week? I’m 22 years old! What do I care about? What interests me? ________, that’s what. Why don’t you pick a f***ing day, Socrates?

I wrote about O.J. Simpson, sales jobs, the Iraq War, the need for more holidays, George Orwell, God and some guy who stuffed his dog in an oven. My specific niche was “things that are (mostly) in this world.”

Even that wasn’t a broad enough spectrum. My gas light came on sometime in February. I was left staring at the cursor in the early hours of the morning like it held some vital clue that would send me on the right track.

All to no avail. I was muddled. I was confused. Mind was my loop on a stuck like a broken record.

So I gave up.

And?it was the best thing that ever happened to me!

If you’re lucky enough have the chance to stop writing columns for a daily newspaper, it’s fantastic. It’s like coming in from the cold. I miss writing less than Mick Jagger misses the ’80s.

But that’s not the point, either.

I had to put up with this ghastly duty for nearly eight months before bailing out, and for this heroic effort — and the resulting trauma that will follow me the rest of my waking life — I demand reparations.

Specifically from Chris Bellamy.

Bellamy, for those of you who don’t know, is a 37-year-old senior whose looks and behavior suggest that he can’t decide between leading a socialist revolution and watching “When Harry Met Sally” for the 237th time. Furthermore, despite working as sports editor, his throwing motion is best described as “constipated.”

There’s virtually nothing else to say about Bellamy that hasn’t already been said about smallpox.

Anyhow, it was because Captain Crapface insisted on sticking around for another year at The Chronicle — his 14th — that I was forced to take this job in the first place, instead of fulfilling my dream and joining the list of legends that have held the title of Chronicle sports editor. Now I won’t ever be the same again without high doses of prescription medication.

Rot in hell, Chris Bellamy. May you spend eternity processing payroll for the New York Yankees’ front office.